


Everything Changes When the Sun Goes Down

by VolxdoSioda



Series: Whumptober 2019 [4]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Clarus survives AU, Gen, Whumptober Day 4: Human Shield, post-Kingsglaive fallout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-11-24 00:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20898587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VolxdoSioda/pseuds/VolxdoSioda
Summary: Clarus has long come to terms with his own death keeping Regis safe.He wasn't supposed to survive.





	Everything Changes When the Sun Goes Down

The Amicitia line is one of guardians.

For centuries, the line has stood as the protectors of Kings and Queens. As the guardians over young Prince and Princesses, the final wall between a ruler and their death, should the outside forces not be enough to halt whatever is coming for them.

Clarus was raised with the expectation that one day, he would die for his King. For Regis. And he has long held peace with that notion.

He has never paused to consider what might happen if somehow, miraculously, he survived.

And Regis didn’t.

X-x-x-x-x-x-x

Noctis is trying. 

He’s trying so hard, for all of them. The crown’s weight bears with him now, even if the kingdom of Lucis is gone. But there is a weight far greater than that on his shoulders, the weight of a man bearing two shields upon his back - one, broken, battered, and bleeding out, unstable but still attempting to perform its duty.

For Clarus, Noctis is trying.

He is not Regis. Nor would Clarus expect him to be. The plans have changed so much -- he was meant to die with Regis,  _ for  _ Regis there, in those halls. Not have his sword put through him, but still somehow wake up again. Not wake and find the body of his oldest, dearest beloved crumpled to the ground, eyes wide open, from a death Clarus was meant to prevent. 

He found a few survivors, on their way out the gates of Insomnia. One of them was Libertus, of the Kingsglaive. Former Kingsglaive, rather, since according to him, Titus had been Glauca.

Gods, there’s so much to process, all of it terrible. It’s why Clarus forces himself to hyper-focus on Noctis, who currently kneels at his feet, Clarus’ leg over his thin shoulder, as he diligently stitches one of the bigger cuts shut. They’ve already used up what few potions they possessed on hand, and what little gil they have is going into food and board for all of them. They’ll need to take hunts, and for that, Clarus needs to get back on his feet. He needs to sit down with Gladio, and explain to him what happens now. 

There’s so much he needs to do, to say. But he has no energy for any of it. The sorrow has carved a hole in his chest, made it its home, and now Clarus is just. Tired. 

“Get some rest,” Noctis orders, and there’s no hesitancy in him, now. He’s afraid, but he’s holding strong. He’s trusting that whatever comes next, someone will be there to help. 

Clarus bows his head, as much as he can, and says quietly, “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

X-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Clarus gives himself a week to mourn. It’s the longest he’s ever allowed emotions to hold him. 

Cor calls, once, and Noctis has a hissed conversation with him in the dead of night, when Ignis and Gladio and Prompto are dead to the world but Clarus isn’t. He’s awake, so used to listening for any little change in Regis’  _ anything  _ over the course of the night that it now affects him with Noctis. 

He can’t hear what Cor says, but he hears Noctis fighting his temper, fighting to remain level-headed. Something about Insomnia, how they’ve got it blocked off now. Understandable. They don’t care if people leave, but nobody’s getting in. Not until the Empire’s got someone stationed there as permanent ruler. 

It makes Clarus sick, the thought of someone else besides Noctis sitting on his father’s throne. 

The call ends, but Noctis doesn’t immediately return to the tent. When fifteen minutes tick by, and only the crackle and pop of the fire comes, Clarus bites the bullet and goes to his lord.

Noctis starts badly when Clarus emerges from the tent, as silent as the grave. The look of guilt that crosses his face speaks for itself. 

He doesn’t bother being soft. “You need your rest, Majesty. Come back to bed.” How many nights had he coaxed Regis away from work the same way? Argued back that the work on his desk could wait until morning, despite the fact that it would have tripled by that point?

Noctis doesn’t have the same fight in him that Regis did. At least not right now. They’re both still recovering, in their own ways. 

“Yeah, okay.” He runs a hand over his face. “Sorry for worrying you.”

Clarus holds the flap open, peering around as Noctis re-enters the tent. He expects Noctis to put himself between Prompto and Gladio again, but instead he moves to the other side of the tent, up against the far wall, where Clarus had been. 

He doesn’t ask  _ is this okay  _ like he would have, once. There’s a weight between his shoulders and on his brow that Clarus can do nothing to ease, much like there was for Regis, and Mors before him. He still remembers a few nights where Regis did this - changed positions in the tent, trying to put himself off and be a one-man island. And Clarus would follow him, be the anchor to weight him down, and offer a silent comfort by merely being there.

Now, he does the same for his new King. Zips the flap back up, puts his back to Ignis, and curls himself around Noctis. Noctis, rather than roll away, turns towards him, and wordlessly moves closer. It’s old habit, to put his arm around the thin shoulders and draw Noctis in. When the front of his shirt becomes damp, he says nothing, merely curls a hand around the back of Noctis’ skull, stroking careful fingers through dark locks. 

Broken, battered and bleeding he might be, but Clarus still has a duty to perform. Until his last breath, he will protect his King. 

Anything else, and he’d be disappointing Regis.


End file.
